Abacus
by Destined To Repeat
Summary: They were just beads sliding one-by-one down an abacus, tiny and insignificant. Maybe they could add up to something. Maybe. But as long as there was no use for them, why bother counting?


--There's an article a lot of little kids read in school or elsewhere that tells a story about how one key on a keyboard isn't all that important--and it takes a while to figure out what it means, because every e in the article is replaced with an x. So it goes, "Onx kxy on thx kxyboard doxsn't rxally mattxr." And it's supposed to prove that everyone is important, even if they're one piece of a much larger whole. But then you have to wonder, what if you're not e? What if you're x? Then you really _don't_ make all that much of a difference. Do you? I can't help but wonder, is the point of life to try to get from x to e?

**Abacus**

A teenager sat curled in the corner of the room as if to mold himself to its shape. His eyes gazed idly around while the rest of him remained motionless, as though he was trying to melt into his miserable surroundings. He could almost disappear, could almost pull himself so far into the shadows that the boundaries of his body blurred and joined their nothingness. But even the darkness was incompetent, and his form remained inflexibly conspicuous.

Perhaps he _could_ have disappeared, had it not been for the single, unsubstantial stream of light that filtered through the tiny window that was too high up, he thought, to do any good anyway.

Dust and flies floated aimlessly around the sole lit column of room there was. The mottled sunshine reached only the edges of his corner, dimly illuminating his features, harsh and hawk-like in the gloom. In his hand was a long, thin stick, carelessly pointed toward the traitorous beam of light. There was a brief flash of green, and a fly dropped like lead in water.

Vaguely, indifferently, he registered the loss of existence. He knew, however unconcernedly, that he was stealing lives, and he supposed he should have been disturbed about that. But no matter how much he _should've_ been disturbed, he couldn't quite bring himself to care. It wasn't like it mattered; nobody paid attention to the flies' tiny carcasses, though sometimes he privately wished they would. Flies were dispensable. Flies existed to be his target practice. Flies did not add up to anything.

Another three flies died mid-air.

He sometimes wondered why he was doing this: he didn't care much about accuracy. Well, he didn't care much about anything, really. Maybe he was trying to distract himself. Or maybe he was just so bored that he had reverted to bullying the lesser species.

A small, twisted smile curled his lips, and half a dozen flies thudded to the floor.

_//"Well…it's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean…"//_

Nobody will notice the pile of tiny bodies on the floor. They will go disregarded liked the other corpses that have gone overlooked, miles away from their house but never quite far enough.

They were just beads sliding one-by-one down an abacus, tiny and insignificant. Maybe they could add up to something. Maybe. But as long as there was no use for them, why bother counting?

Flies will die. People will die. Bodies will be buried. Bodies will be left where they fall. That is the nature of life: make yourself useful to someone who matters or spend your afterlife rotting on the floor.

And if he had to do some…unsavory things on the way, well…what difference was he making, after all is said and done? A second, and then a flash of light followed quickly by death—was that the value of life? Was that what he was enduring for?

…Just beads sliding one-by-one down an abacus. Tiny and insignificant. There to be there. There to be counted among the others.

Two more flies dropped out of sight. The door creaked, almost too quietly to hear. He eyes flashed briefly toward the sound and then back to his game. It was another second before the door tentatively opened just enough for his mother's face to peer through, gazing at him tearfully, almost pleadingly—an expression he knew all too well.

"Severus..." she whispered, her voice hoarse and oddly surreal in the silence. "Severus, it's time to go."

He looked at her for a moment, his cold black eyes surveying her as if deciding whether to comply. Then he exhaled slowly. "Yes. Let's go, Mother."

Severus Snape straightened and strode to the door, taking care to step on the flies on his way out.


End file.
